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Looking back, I realize that I'd jumped the gun and ran with the story
a few days too soon. I had hoped to identify the other driver in the race that cost John Bowers his life by letting that driver
know he might be in danger, or to save a few lives by letting everyone know that a danger existed.
By printing the
story however, I managed to upset all my new friends and acquaintances at Scorchers by publicizing their shared loss,
as well as trivializing (in their eyes) the deaths of their friends as part of an urban legend. When I showed up at the Justice
Police Department to take a look at the reports on John Bowers' death, I was almost arrested. Just as Cmdr. Kunzel had predicted,
the 9-1-1 phones were ringing off the hook with Resurrection Mary sightings. The Justice PD blamed my story and myself for
the calls and threatened to charge me with 'interfering with emergency police communications'. Not being able to get the police
department's help and deciding to steer clear of Scorchers for a few days, I tried to get another professional opinion.
I sought out my friend and spiritual advisor Maria Hargrove (nee Vlahocz). Maria worked reading tealeaves for the
superstitious patrons of Little Romany Tea Room in 'Old Town'. A few years ago Maria had given me...make that sold
me, information on how to overpower the Ryder Bond doppelganger. I caught Maria between clients after the lunchtime rush.
"Good afternoon, Carl. What brings you by to see me today?" Maria smiled, with just a touch of an old-world Romanian
accent.
"Maria, I just came by to chat and catch up. It's been much too long."
"Ha! Carl, inquiring minds
want to know...you're here after something, and its not to catch up." She laughed, now speaking with her native Chicago accent.
"Okay, so you've turned mind-reader now. I've got a ghost problem and I'm wondering if a medium can help solve it."
I replied and told her everything I knew about Resurrection Mary and the recent deaths.
"Well, Carl, you sure can
find the strange stories, can't you? I don't think I can help you, though. I'm strictly attuned to fortune telling and spiritual
advising. Crystal balls, tea leaves, tarot cards and the like. I don't have any knowledge of communing with the dead. That's
way out of my experience and very dangerous. You would be advised to stay away from interfering with a vengeful spirit."
"I
hear you Maria. But I really want to help, and I think I'm the only one who's on the right track to clearing this mess up.
Sometimes I think I stumble into these 'strange stories' because I am willing to open my mind to the possibilities and take
a risk to find a solution." I confessed, "Is there anyone you can think of that might help me?"
"Carl, you worry me.
So I won't even make you cross my palm for this information." She picked up a colorful oversized cloth handbag from the floor
and rummaged through it for her address book and a pen, "Here is the name of an acquaintance of mine. She's the sister of
a friend who works here. She has spent many years studying the old ways and learning to talk to the dead. Perhaps she can
talk you out of this recklessness. I will tell her to expect your call."
I looked at the note and saw the name 'Lana
Markos' and a phone number. "Thank you Maria. Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you." I took the name and
number and got up from the table.
"Do not thank me yet, Carl. I am a fortune teller after all, and your future does
not look bright. Don't meddle in affairs that don't concern you. Stay away from these angry spirits. I see great danger."
Maria warned.
I left knowing I should listen to her and stay away, but my own inner voices were telling me to press
on...I just wished my good friend Maria hadn't been so deadly serious when I left the tea room.
I got in touch with
Lana Markos when I got back to the newsroom; we agreed to meet for dinner.
We met at a casual place in the Loop, the
kind that has beers you never heard of on tap and their own special recipe for ribs. Lana's voice on the phone was husky and
deep, and I expected an older if not matronly woman to meet me for dinner. I couldn't have been more pleasantly surprised.
I found out that Lana was only three years out of graduate school, which I think would put her in her mid to late
twentys. She had a trim athletic figure and long dark brown hair. Her dark eyes and taste in colorful accessories and jewelry
hinted at her gypsy ancestry.
We chatted about her background and my own checkered past until we had finished our
dinners. We ordered another round of beer and I told her my story. Her eyes flashed with interest at every mention of the
ghost of Resurrection Mary interacting with the living. By the end of the conversation, after answering several of her questions,
I could tell that I had found a knowledgeable and interested partner in this mystery.
"What is it that you think I
can do to help you, Carl?" she asked.
"I am hoping to stop the killing, by finding out who was driving the other car
when John Bowers was killed, and also somehow telling Resurrection Mary that she needs to stop her vengeance and maybe put
her to rest, as well." I answered, maybe too quickly. It was the first time I'd tried to put all that I wanted to do into
words. It sounded a little silly and very ambitious.
"Oh, is that all!" Lana laughed. "Well, let's take them one at
a time. First we need to find out who the other driver was. Mary doesn't know who he is, that's why she's been so random.
You said the police never found out who he is, either."
"I couldn't get a look at the reports, but no I don't think
they found out." I answered.
"Okay, so the only ones that know are the driver, if he's still alive,
and John Bowers, who we know is dead." Lana concluded.
"Good thing one of us knows how to talk to the dead, huh?"
I smiled.
"Yes, I will try, but let's continue. Next, you want to talk to Mary about her vengeance and try to put
her to rest, right?" Lana asked.
"Right, is that something you think we can do?" I asked her.
"Again, I will
try. But it is many times more difficult to contact an earth-bound spirit rather than one that has passed on. Let us work
first on contacting John Bowers. We will need to find his resting place, his grave, and I will need a possession of his, something
he often touched, or wore." she told me.
"Okay, let me look into that and I'll call you. Thank you very much for helping.
And let us toast to our success." I said while Lana and I raised our glasses and said goodnight.
The next morning
in the newsroom, I checked the files for John Bowers' obituary. The obit didn't list any surviving family members. I called
the funeral home and the director told me that John Bowers' friends had paid for his funeral. Where was John buried? "Why,
Resurrection Cemetery, of course."
John Bowers apparently had moved to the Chicago area alone and his possessions
had been sold or given away after his death, a fact I was later able to confirm with Turk Turkiewicz. I found the name of
the auto pound that the Justice Police Department uses and luckily it was privately owned. If I was going to get access to
the last remaining possession of John Bowers, his wrecked car, it would be easier with a non-city run facility.
Powell
Auto Pound was a block square fenced yard piled high with crushed and rusted carcasses of autos and trucks dating back
to the Prohibition Era. I was able to convince the yard chief to let me look around for some '77 Camaro parts I needed and
since the yard was somewhat divided into rows according to make, I was soon picking my way down an aisle of rusting Chevys.
I was walking slowly and keeping my eyes on the hazardous path in front of me to keep from twisting an ankle on the variety
of debris that littered the ground. Glancing ahead I caught a glimpse of a glowing figure about twenty yards away. I could
barely make out any details in the bright sunshine, but it seemed to be female and dressed in white. I got a brief impression
that she turned to look at me and then suddenly vanished.
I froze in my tracks and wondered if I had really seen her.
Then I hurried forward and found what I'd been searching for. Atop of a stack of wrecked Chevys, I saw John Bowers' mangled
Camaro. The figure I saw had been standing directly in front of it.
Taking off my hat and jacket, I started to
carefully climb up to the Camaro. The stack of wrecks was more stable than it looked and I felt reasonably safe climbing it.
The driver's door had been removed and I was able to look inside at about floorboard level. Most of the window glass
was lying broken on the floor and the interior had been exposed to the elements for a couple of months. John had kept his
car interior clean, so there wasn't as much as a gum wrapper among the shattered glass on the Camaro floor. I felt around
behind the seat and found a scrap of leather. Pulling it out I realized how lucky I had become. What I had found was a black
leather driving glove. It was for a man's right hand, size large. I could only hope it had once belonged to John Bowers.
As
I looked down, to start my descent, I saw the glowing figure again. This time she was staring up at me. I watched her for
a second or more and she again disappeared.
Shoving the glove into my pocket, I scrambled down the wrecks and reached
the ground.
I grabbed my hat and jacket and ran for the junkyard entrance. I slowed down upon reaching the office,
thanked the yard-chief for letting me look around, and trotted back to my car.
As I drove away, I pulled out the glove
I found and looked at it again. If it was John's, then I only needed to find his grave and I could call Lana for our attempt
to contact him.
I put the glove on the console between the front seats and suddenly Mary appeared sitting in the passenger
seat of my car! She stared at me with a questioning look on her face and after glancing down at the glove, looked at me with
pure fury!
"Mary, I'm trying to help!" I quickly said to her. "I know how upset you are that John was taken away from
you, but I'm trying to help!"
Mary reached out and grabbed my arm and I felt like I was suddenly freezing solid. I
was no longer able to control my car; I couldn't move the steering wheel or take my foot off the accelerator. I was heading
north on Archer Avenue, heading back into Justice. I tried to talk to beg Mary to stop and listen to me, but I couldn't move
any part of my body.
As we came across the bridge over the 294 Tollway and entered the town of Justice, I heard a
police siren behind us. I guess it broke Mary's concentration because she looked back, let go of my arm and disappeared. The
frozen feeling left me and I was able to slow down and stop my car. The Justice squad pulled in behind me on the shoulder.
I sat shaking and rubbing my arm to bring the feeling and circulation back, and the officer walked up alongside my car.
"License
and registration, sir." he asked.
"Thank God you pulled me over, you just saved my life." I said, fumbling with my
wallet. "Did you see anyone in the car here, next to me?"
The cop leaned down and looked across to the passenger side.
"There's no one sitting next to you, sir."
"No, but there was...didn't you see her? It was Resurrection Mary, she
almost made me crash." I said, handing him my I.D.
"Oh, Mister Kolchak, I thought I recognized you. Is there anything
you do that doesn't involve Resurrection Mary?" he asked me.
"Well if you didn't see her, you didn't see her. Am I
getting a ticket, or not?" I had recovered enough to start showing my irritation.
"No, I'd give you a warning if I
thought it would help. Have a nice day," he said, handing back my license and walking back to his squad car.
I pulled
away from the curb and continued north on Archer. I didn't want to tempt fate by walking into the lion's den, but my next
step was to find John Bowers' grave at Resurrection Cemetery. The Justice squad followed me for a short while and then pulled
past me as I turned into the cemetery entrance. I thought I could see the cop shaking his head as he watched me drive inside
and past the main gates. It was mid-afternoon, so there were several cars parked along the main drive and people among the
headstones paying their respects. I found the visitor center and a self-help directory told me where John Bowers was interred.
I quickly found the Bowers grave and marker and made a mental note on how to find the spot should we be returning
after closing and in the dark. There were a few large trees and a bush or two in case Lana and I needed to avoid being seen.
John's grave was neat and trimmed and didn't look any different from the dozens of graves surrounding it.
The marker
was set flush to the ground and read "John Wilton Bowers - September 3, 1959 - March 8, 1981 - Dear Friend, Rest In Peace."
I hoped that Lana's and my next task would not violate that wish. I decided to mark the grave by getting some flowers and
I returned to the visitors area.
After buying a bouquet of marigolds, the thought occurred to me to check another
name through the locator index. I found Marie Bregovska listed and the grave was in a much older section of the cemetery.
I drove to the area and picked my way through the variety of headstones and monuments of those who had departed between 1920
and the early '40s. I found the headstone of the young woman believed to be Resurrection Mary and on impulse placed the flowers
I'd bought on the grave. As I stood and looked up I saw the ghost in white staring at me across a distance of several dozen
yards. I realized that if Mary had been watching me visit John's grave as well as her own, that she might be curious about
my motives and me.
I decided to but on a little show for her benefit and tried my best to ignore her. This time I
knelt in silent prayer by her grave and crossed myself in the Catholic custom.
I stayed that way for several minutes
and actually did my best to pray for her soul just in case she could tell, psychically, what I was thinking. I then crossed
myself again, got up and went to my car and repeated the performance at John's grave, after first picking up another bouquet
of flowers.
I didn't know if Mary had been watching me the whole time or if anything I'd done had made an impression
on her. Who knows what a spirit of a long dead person feels or thinks or reasons?
But, if Mary was able to fall in
love with John Bowers, and able to hate the one responsible for his death enough to kill indiscriminately; perhaps she could
forgive as well? I had seen what Mary could do and had almost been one of her victims. Now I desperately wanted her to know
that I was willing to help.
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